


Holding Onto Sanity The Only Way I Know How

by devilswreckedchewtoy (AmberFyre)



Series: RP Verse Ficlets [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, RP ficlet, RP headcanon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberFyre/pseuds/devilswreckedchewtoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although Sam no longer has to worry about Lucifer on his shoulder and in his ear day in and day out, it doesn't mean that he's as fine as it appears.  Because he can remember it all and what he went through has left scars.  Sometimes it becomes more than he can handle and he only knows of one way to drive the shadows away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Onto Sanity The Only Way I Know How

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet is based on a headcanon I have for Sam, who I RP on tumblr. I like to explore things that don't get mentioned much (or sometimes at all) in canon for whatever the reason. This is just an idea I have about how Sam copes with all the stuff he's been through.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> As per usual, I own nothing but the story.

It had started days ago as a faint nagging itch in his brain that was uncomfortable but could still be ignored.  It was a warning though and Sam knew it.  For all that he seemed to be fine, for all that Cas had taken the brunt of the insanity that had stormed through his brain due to Hell memories spilling all over, he still had scars.  He could still remember it all, every last bit of it.  And while he could usually keep it in the box, every now and then something would spring the latch and it would start to creep up on him.

Sam knew when that nagging faint itch started up that he had to be careful.  He hadn’t actually let anyone know how deeply the scars ran.  Had managed to hide when things got so unstable because memories of torments became more intrusive than formless nightmares.  He didn’t want anyone to know just how broken parts of him still were.  And he mostly succeeded.  Though it often took some rather… extreme methods to keep it hidden.

The nagging itch was usually followed shortly by nightmares that were far too vivid and woke him on the verge of screaming.  When he got to that point, he generally found a reason, an excuse, to go off on his own.  A case, a hunt, any excuse at all.  It didn’t always work, sometimes he was in the middle of a case and couldn’t just drop it.  So he dealt as best he could even as the nagging itch spread from his brain out and under his skin.  As the nightmares got worse, sleeping was avoided, and the thought of eating made his gorge rise.

But when the voices in his head started up, he knew.  He knew there would only be one way to silence them before someone noticed.  The words that would circle, repeated phrases and recriminations, accusations and castigations.  _It’s was your fault.  How many people died because of you?  You’ll never be free. You think you’re the good guy, Sam?  If it weren’t for you things would be so much better for so many.  You will never atone for what you’ve done.  You’re an abomination._

Dean’s way of showing him how to tell the difference between his hallucinations and reality had set the template.  The pain from his wounded hand had helped.  And he really didn’t know any other way to chase the darkness back into the box when it started to drop its curtain over reality and the memories began to play themselves out in fits and starts when he wasn’t sleeping.  Pain in the here and now grounded him and drove the shadows away.  So once he got to that point he did the only thing he knew to do.

He waited until he was alone.  This wasn’t something he wanted anyone to know about.  He already got sideways glances from people who knew who he was and what he’d done.  He already knew that those who knew him best worried about him, and he felt they didn’t need more to worry about.  He just _needed_ something to hold him to the here and now and this was what he knew.

He was careful.  He was always careful.  He’d had enough wounds over his career as a hunter to know what could be handled without having to get anyone else involved.  And he didn’t want anyone else involved.  He didn’t want anyone else to know.  And he had enough scars from actual hunts that he figured a few more weren’t likely to be remarked upon.  He hated himself for it.  Felt guilt and shame once it was done.  But it pulled reality back, shoved away the remembered torments and the accusing voices.  He could handle guilt and shame.  It was just another layer to what he already carried.  He _couldn’t_ deal with a receding reality and the shadows that haunted him.  So he did what he had to do.  He did what he knew worked.  And the box would be latched shut.

Until next time.


End file.
